


Panther's Prey

by cosmogyrals



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 10:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmogyrals/pseuds/cosmogyrals
Summary: A quick and dirty pwp with Sam and T'Challa. Set in a post-CW AU, no spoilers for IW.





	Panther's Prey

The king's bedroom was, like the rest of his suite, richly appointed with the best Wakanda had to offer - finely carved dark wood and brightly colored cloth. The panther habit was arranged with care on a stand in one corner, and a table held a picture of two smiling people who Sam assumed were T'Challa's parents in their younger years.

"If it were my choice," T'Challa admitted when he saw Sam looking at his surroundings, his tone a little rueful, "I would have simpler chambers. But everything here is a gift from my people, and I would insult them if I did not keep their gifts. Besides, it reminds me of the responsibility I bear my nation."

"In other words, that you can never escape being a king." Sam read what was between the words, even if T'Challa hadn't meant to imply it.

"It's a fact I've been aware of all my life, from the point I was old enough to understand it. To be a king means that your life is your country's, not your own. My father died for it - and I believe the days in which both king and Panther could live to a ripe old age have come to a close. Wakanda is ready to take its place on the global stage, and that means danger." T'Challa shook his head. "But I didn't bring you here to talk to you like an advisor."

"It sounds lonely," Sam ventured, reaching out to run a hand down T'Challa's arm, fingers lingering on the back of his hand. "You can talk to me about whatever you want, T'Challa, you know that."

"I know, but talking about the burdens a king must bear is hardly the talk of seduction." And, Sam suspected, T'Challa was a lot like Steve in believing that he couldn't talk about his problems, that his struggles were his own. It was a ridiculous attitude, and one that drove Sam crazy a lot of the time.

"But it's what friends talk about," he ventured. "And you said that this was between two friends. Do you even _have_ anyone you consider a friend, T'Challa?"

The king raised an eyebrow. "You," he said simply. "Everyone within Wakanda is entangled within its politics, its culture. You are an outsider, with no connections to anything or anyone. You don't understand the situation here, can never truly understand it - but at the same time, it means that I am free to talk to you. You, and the rest of the Avengers here, are the only ones in the country who aren't my subjects - while I outrank you, I can't order you to do anything. The only obligations you bear are those of a guest to his host."

"You _could_ order me to do whatever you wanted." Sam slipped back into flirtation for just a moment to lighten the mood, looking up at T'Challa through his eyelashes. "But I don't know if you're ready for that yet."

"Little bird, I don't think you should worry about whether _I'm_ ready for something like that." He leaned in and kissed Sam's cheek, the bristles of his beard brushing against his skin, his hand cupping the other cheek. "I think you should worry about whether you can handle it." Using his hand to turn Sam's head, T'Challa kissed him softly on the lips, lingering for a long moment.

"But that's not what I'm looking for tonight," he murmured against Sam's skin. "I want an equal. A friend. Someone to share intimacy with. I want to set aside the crown, if only for an hour."

"And I want you to have the chance to talk." Sam took a step back resolutely. "You can't keep everything bottled up inside, T'Challa. Steve tried that, and look at what happened to him."

"You do realize that talking about the other man in your life is _not_ what I brought you here to do, right?" T'Challa rolled his eyes. "What do I have to do to make you stop thinking about Steve Rogers?"

"That's a rhetorical question, right?" Sam smirked at him. "Because if it's not, I can name a few things."

The king huffed and pushed Sam onto the bed, gently but insistently. "Take off your shirt. And your pants, while you're at it."

"Is there some kinda rule with you guys about foreplay?" Sam rolled his eyes as he disrobed - not just his pants and shirt, but his underwear as well - setting the clothes on a chair that was probably worth more money than he made in a year. "Seriously, nobody needs to get right down to business. You can draw things out, I promise."

T'Challa just made a scornful noise as he rummaged in the drawer of his bedside table, drawing out a bottle of oil. "I told you before, Sam, I'm a better lover than that. On your stomach, if you please." When Sam complied, he straddled his thighs, rubbing a hand over the smooth skin of his ass. "This oil contains, among other things, a small quantity of the heart-shaped herb that grants those chosen as Black Panther their gifts. I normally use it to aid my wounds in healing, but...it comes in handy at other times, as well." He tugged his own tunic over his head before he uncapped the vial of oil, pouring a small puddle of the cool liquid directly onto Sam's back.

"And that isn't some kind of sacrilege?" Sam was dubious. He'd heard T'Challa mention the herb before, and he was pretty sure it was extremely sacred.

"I am the king and the Panther, and I may choose to use it for whatever I wish." Deft hands kneaded at Sam's shoulders, spreading the oil over his back. It had a crisp green scent to it, but also a floral hint that reminded Sam of the jungles of Wakanda. "If I want to rub it over my cock before I fuck you into the mattress, then it is my prerogative." 

He shivered, and it wasn't just from T'Challa's touch. He'd never heard the other man speak like that before, and Sam had a bit of a thing for dirty talk. He licked his lips. "What if I want you to finger me first?"

T'Challa's hand slipped down to his ass, dragging the oil with it, and he leaned down to whisper in Sam's ear. "Then I'll open you up one finger at a time, Sam, and make you beg for each one before I fill you up." Oily fingers slid down his crack and circled his opening before finding purchase on his lower back once more. "Maybe I'll suck you off at the same time. How long has it been since you've had someone swallow your cock?"

Sam groaned, resting his forehead against the cool cloth of the pillow. His erection strained against the blankets, and he resisted the urge to rut against them. As T'Challa ran his hands over his back, he arched his spine and leaned into the touch. "Too long," he breathed.

"As I thought. Roll over." T'Challa didn't seem to care that the oil would make a mess of his bed, and Sam's mind was too clouded to consider it as he shifted onto his back, exposing his front side to the king. "Ahhh." T'Challa let out a satisfied sigh at the sight of Sam's cock, hard and starting to seep. A thumb gathered the moisture from the head, spreading it over the tip, before he reached for the oil again.

"You have to let me return the favor sometime," Sam murmured, his voice thick with arousal. He could just imagine T'Challa's muscles under his hands, skin slick with oil. "And let me fuck you." 

"Of course." Elegant hands smoothed over Sam's pecs and biceps, rubbing the oil in. "You look beautiful like this, Sam. I knew you would. And you'll look even more beautiful when you come, spread out beneath me."

Sam's tongue darted out to lick his lips again as he considered a thought. "What if I ride you?" he ventured.

"Even better." T'Challa's grin widened. "I would love to watch you on me. The problem with being royalty is that one must always appear to be dominant to one's subjects - even in bed. Any Wakandan lover I take to bed is clearly my subordinate - so, as you can imagine, it's been some time since I've been able to indulge in anything truly _interesting_. Particularly with another man." He wrapped slick fingers around Sam's length, stroking him slowly.

"Oh, _God_ ," Sam groaned, his back arching off the bed at the touch. "I- I'll fuck you later." The words spilled from his mouth as he jerked his hips up. "Bury myself inside you till I find just the right spot to make you shout my name. If you have restraints, I can use those." He wondered, his mind barely coherent, if T'Challa was hinting at secret submissive tendencies, if he got off on giving up all control to another person. Maybe he would have to investigate that later.

"Just the sex is fine." T'Challa chuckled, and the sound rumbled deep in his chest, almost like a purr. "No need to get too elaborate yet." Which, Sam thought, didn't mean that it might not happen eventually. But any further contemplation was forestalled by the king bending over him, breath hot against his sensitive skin.

"T'Challa, please-" Sam begged, but he was cut off by the other man's mouth enveloping his cock, the wet heat everything he'd hoped for. His erection twitched against his tongue, and Sam clawed at the blankets. " _Christ_." 

"Thank you for indulging me in this," T'Challa breathed against his thigh as he pulled off for a moment, exposing Sam to the cool air once more. It was a shock after the warmth of his mouth, but a welcome one, the chill sharper, more focused - and when T'Challa swallowed him again, it made the contrast even better. His skilled tongue worked up and down Sam's length, tracing veins, swirling around the head as his cheeks hollowed around him. The king bobbed his head slowly, keeping his gaze trained on Sam as one oil-slick finger probed him slowly.

"Yessss," Sam hissed between his clenched teeth, encouraging him. "Open me up for your cock, T'Challa." He spread his thighs apart, writhing in a way he was sure was wanton if he looked half as desperate as he felt.

"Patience, little bird." He let him fall from his mouth again, kissing the bare skin of his inner thigh, the base of his cock, his balls. He mouthed one of them, laving the surface with his tongue as Sam surged up against him. One finger felt too inadequate for Sam, as skilled as that finger was at stroking his inner muscles as it worked in and out. "I should make you wear a cockring next time. Think of the delights we could have then, with you at my mercy and unable to come."

"More like torture." Sam groaned, his head falling back against the pillows again. "I should've remembered that cats like to play with their prey."

T'Challa laughed wickedly as he swallowed Sam down again, and the laughter vibrated all the way down Sam's erection and straight to his balls. Another finger nudged at his entrance, slipping in beside the first.

"Aaaahhhnnn." That time, Sam couldn't manage to say anything, not when T'Challa crooked his fingers in just the right way to slide along his prostate with each thrust. The king had him at his mercy with just his bare hands and his mouth; he couldn't even begin to think about what adding toys to the mix might do. His muscles tensed with every brush against his prostate, and T'Challa watched him with an expert eye, gauging how close he was before he added a third finger. "Fuck, yes, just like that."

"If I were you," T'Challa offered with mock solemnity as he rested his head on Sam's thigh, "I would make a terrible joke about stuffed turkeys right now. Thankfully, I'm beyond such crude humor."

"If you said something like that, then I'd tell you to shut the hell up and fuck me," Sam retorted breathlessly. " _Turkeys_ , honestly." He did his best to sound disgruntled, but fell rather short of the mark.

"Ah, but I think you promised me something different." T'Challa pulled his fingers out, and Sam shivered at the sudden emptiness they left behind. As the king shed his pants and underwear, Sam found the bottle of oil again - and then stared openly at T'Challa as the other man sat at the head of the bed, entirely naked and leaning easily against the headboard, his skin nearly the same shade as the wood. His body was a sight to behold, lean and muscled and everything Sam had imagined.

"Either way, you're still stuffing my turkey." Sam snorted as he straddled T'Challa's lap. "Man, I'm never going to be able to look at Thanksgiving dinner the same way." 

"A tragedy, to be sure." T'Challa started to roll his eyes, but they just rolled back into his head as Sam gripped his cock firmly, spreading the oil over the heated skin. His erection was thick and heavy in Sam's hand, and it was enough to make his mouth water with thoughts of sucking him off. Later, he told himself. 

Instead, he lifted his hips up until he felt the head of T'Challa's erection nudging at him. Slowly, his thighs trembling with the effort of restraining himself, Sam slid down onto it, a low moan bubbling up from his throat and spilling out. The stretch and burn of a cock was far, far more satisfying than fingers, especially when it meant that both of T'Challa's hands were free to settle on his hips.

"Oh, Sam," he breathed lightly, a look of wonder in his eyes. T'Challa leaned in to kiss him, slow and sweet and everything he'd been missing. Sam didn't think tenderness and vulnerability were qualities a king was allowed to display in bed, either, judging from the underlying sense of desperation. 

Sam rocked his hips slowly, savoring every moment, every shift in and out. T'Challa kissed him, ran his hands over every inch of his skin, whispered quiet words of praise in his ear. There were gentle grazes of teeth, but nothing that left marks behind, all soothed by a velvet tongue. 

As T'Challa's hand found a place on his cock, Sam leaned back just a little, hissing with pleasure as the new angle of penetration allowed the king's erection to brush his prostate with every thrust. He lost himself in the rhythm of the act, rocking back onto T'Challa's length, then up into his hand, over and over. His muscles began to tighten, and he moved faster, seeking more stimulation, chasing his climax greedily. Burying his face in the crook of T'Challa's neck, Sam bucked his hips once more, then stilled as he tipped over the edge, spilling into the other man's hand with a muffled shout. In the haze of bliss that followed, he was vaguely aware of T'Challa following after him and crying his pleasure wordlessly, his cock pulsing where it was buried deep inside him.

Slumping forward, Sam leaned against T'Challa's chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart as it beat, content to be silent for just a few moments. T'Challa rested his chin on top of Sam's head, wrapping his arms around him, and Sam was reminded of how much he missed the intimacy of being with a partner after sex - maybe even more than the act itself.

"Will you stay the night?" T'Challa murmured finally, brushing a kiss against his forehead. Sam stretched out slowly, shifted off his lap and laid down to one side of him.

"I think that could be arranged," he agreed as he draped an arm over the king, trying to gauge his propensity for post-coital cuddling. It was tough to tell with T'Challa; he cultivated a certain aloofness, but Sam thought that he might want contact just as much as anyone else. He didn't move away when Sam closed the distance between them, nuzzling right into the crook of his neck, though he did tense for a moment before relaxing again. "We ought to shower," Sam added, perhaps a bit belatedly. His limbs were heavy, and he didn't want to get up, but there was a certain concern for T'Challa's bedclothes in the back of his mind.

In response, T'Challa pulled him closer with one hand and drew a finger through the sticky mess on Sam's stomach with the other, smiling in lazy satisfaction. "There's no need. I find that I like you like this."

Sam shivered, a frisson of arousal fluttering at the edge of his consciousness, even recently spent as he was. Oh, yeah, he was definitely in over his head here.


End file.
